


Psalms

by Todesengel



Series: Arc o' Whore!Keith [1]
Category: Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Old Ones speak, but nobody listens</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psalms

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-Amazing Grace, placed later in the series because, really, you should read that fic first. This fic merely provides some context/background for the world Keith came from.

_Ecce enim in iniquitatibus conceptus sum.  
(For behold, I was conceived in sin)_

Yoji coughed the hacking, wet cough that bent him at the waist and meant his lungs were continuing to dissolve. Head still mostly down between his knees, he reached beneath the rough wood bench and picked up the chipped earthenware cup that held the poor excuse for tea that they served these days -- not the bitter, rich stuff from his youth but some weak, imported brew that was thin and tasteless and would never inspire ritual or meditation; he sipped carefully, moving slowly so that not a single drop was spilled. It was just barely strong enough to wash away the taste of blood, and as he drank he thought that if had happened to anyone but him, he would have laughed at the impossibility of his dying. An Onyo killed by disease. In his youth, before the war, such an occurrence had been unheard of. Of course, in his youth he hadn't heard of 'war reparations' and 'rehabilitation centers' and 'human rights violations' and 'utilitarian justification', but his ignorance of such things made them no less real now.

He coughed again and sucked in a dry, hot breath. It was hot in the City, the towering Walls throwing back the heat they trapped. It was always searing hot, or it was always burning cold, and no matter what the temperature the smell of smoke permeated everything. Oppressive heat and oppressive cold and just simple oppression -- these things were the constant background of life.

From the darkness beneath came a soft sound -- a cough or a sneeze or maybe just a stifled yawn -- and then the children were silent again.

And here was another thing he'd never heard of before the war and the occupation: children who skulked in the shadows and fought and killed and had no name except the one their companions gave them; no home except the one they found; no family except the ones they ran with and huddled together in sleepy piles during the cold winter days.

No existence except for the one they stole, with bared teeth and naked knifes and a cobbled together parody of the way life used to be.

Yoji filled his weak lungs again; coughed again, but this time from the dust raised by the tramp-tramp-tramping of a patrol as they sweated their way down the street, going about their rounds with as little care or concern for duty as always. Like the rest of the ill and incapacitated who sat on the cracked bench with him, he bowed his head in subservience as they passed. Below, the silence of children too frightened to breathe radiated out like a cold fog, and Yoji had to dig his fingernails into the calloused palms of his hands until he fought off the desperate urge to laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation.

It was all so absurd, because the Alliance knew all about the Irihai -- they had to know, for there were too many children left unclaimed, too many babes collected in the morning along with the rest of the garbage in the gutters to be fed to the never ending fire -- and the Onyo knew that the Alliance knew and yet nobody did anything about it except pretend ignorance; the Alliance was very, very good at ignoring what didn't fit in perfectly with its preconceived notions, particularly in regards to themselves. Just like the Docs who wouldn't do anything about his lungs because, obviously, Onyo couldn't get lung cancer, not even when the spirit was dead and all of the body's energies were directed toward the basics of living -- of breathing and pumping blood -- with no power left over to spare for the accelerated healing that had cost them so much. Why deal with troublesome brats who were breast fed on hate when it was so much easier to ignore their existence, or to profit off of the fact that these children would never be missed?

It was always so much easier to ignore the problem then to deal with it head on.

"Yoji? Are you all right? I smell blood." Kippei's hands fumblingly gripped his. "Should we fetch a doctor?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Yoji said, staring down at the boards rather than into Kippei's mangled face; two years since his eyes had been taken and yet Kippei still turned, still moved as if he could see the world around him. Yoji couldn't face that right now, couldn't stare at the gaping absences that had changed a healthy man into a sick one, stolen youth and substituted age. Kippei was only thirty, and that was too young to be called old. They were all too young, the sick and infirm and dying who sat here on this bench and spoke endlessly about a past that only a few still remembered. They were all too young and Yoji included himself in that thought, even though he was, perhaps, the oldest of them all. Sixty-seven and a great-grandfather too many times over, and he wondered if his ancestors pitied him or reviled him from their exalted place in the beyond; or if, like him, they had grown weak for want of sacrifices and remembrance.

The distant _gong-ong-ong_ of the temple bell of some other District rang out, a muted precursor to the dull roar and bang and whistle of the _matsuri_ marking the zenith of summer, and in an idle way Yoji envied those Onyo who lived in the other districts, who could still celebrate in the old ways. Honor and pride were fine things to hold onto, but he'd sacrificed his honor when he agreed to live that day fifty years ago, instead of throwing himself upon his sword, and dying as a proper warrior. And now he was old and dying and he was still younger than his father had been at his death.

"Long life to his Imperial Majesty." The ancient and empty platitude fell from Yukio's lips as he finished speaking and leaned back against the wall. Up and down the line of the old men, the words were muttered in rote reply.

Long life his Imperial Majesty.

That used to mean something, once.

Yoji took a rattling breath and leaned forward, and the other old ones kept silent. He licked his lips and said, "I was a _bushi_ before the war. I followed the way of the warrior, as did my father and his father and his father's father, back beyond more generations than can be counted. By the sword I lived; but by the sword I shall not die. And into this never-ending cycle of suffering I'll be reborn, penance for my shame, the penalty of selling my honor." He coughed again, spat a clot of blood off to one side. "I followed the code of the _bushi_ ; I pledged my life in service to my honor, swore to die if I betrayed my self. And at the end, when the Emperor told us to live, asked us to bow down and submit, I did as he asked. I betrayed everything I was because I was afraid, because I was a coward." The words were hard to say and his hands trembled as he spoke his shame. "I was free, once. I am free no longer."

Kippei's hand touched his. "They aren't listening," he said.

Yoji smiled, bitter like his blood.

They never did.


End file.
